Improper Behaviour?
by Maple Fay
Summary: Directly following the events of the Christmas Special. Mr. Carson sees something he doesn't quite approve of. Mrs. Hughes saves the day  or, in this case, the night  before he manages to spoil the scene - and gives him something to think about...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: The lack of Carson/Hughes in the Christmas Special made me quite sad. Oh, well—it's nothing that couldn't be mended with a little fan fiction… It might be slightly OOC, but my C/H deprived soul needs it. Hope you enjoy it._

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><p>Well, this was the <em>most<em> improper behaviour, if he'd ever seen one!

Something had to be done!

He all but sprung forward, across the hall and outside to the courtyard—but a small, yet strong hand caught his sleeve and held him back.

"What the…" he started, amazed that someone had the nerve to stop him in his way, and turned on his heel, to face—her.

She was smiling, warm sparkles dancing in her eyes, her face still coloured from the evening activities. "Stay where you are," she said playfully. "Isn't that what you always wanted?"

The question caught him completely off guard. "Well… yes, but…"

"No 'buts'," she demanded, shaking her head reproachfully and pulling him away from the windows, and into the dark hallway leading below stairs. "It's as it should be. Give them this moment, they deserve it."

He frowned, his fingers tingling with the need to brush her away and stride across the corridor, to open the door and say… something… anything!, to break up the scene he'd just witnessed. "What if this is all wrong?" he asked, not quite managing to hide a pout. "What if he's simply taking advantage of her?"

She chuckled, and squeezed his arm reassuringly. "I do not think that is the case, Mr. Carson."

"How can you possibly know that? How can you be so sure?" he grumbled, but seemed to lose a little of the wind under his proverbial wings. She smiled at him, beautiful, full smile, which made his heart skip a beat.

"I saw him kneeling down a moment ago. _That's_ how I know, and am sure."

He blinked and turned fully towards her, instinctively covering her hand with his. "You mean he—?"

"I believe so, Mr. Carson."

Relief flooded over him, and he felt himself relax, slumping inelegantly against the wall. "They gave me quite a scare, you see," he mumbled, hoping it would serve as an explanation.

Of course, she would have none of it.

"And…?" she pressed, her brow quirking as she bit her lip playfully.

"…I might have overreacted a little."

She nodded triumphantly, clearly very satisfied with herself. "You must try to trust people more, and to believe in their intelligence, Mr. Carson," she lectured him with mock seriousness. "Giving in to one's spontaneous urges doesn't necessarily mean one's behaviour has to be considered improper. Not even by a person of such high standards as yourself."

He could tell she was making fun of him, but couldn't hold a grudge against her: after all, she _did_ provide him with an explanation that put his nerves to rest… not to mention the soothing effect her touch had on him, as much as he tried to deny it.

"Perhaps you're right," he sighed, and reluctantly let go of her hand. "I'll make it my New Year's Resolution."

"Good," she said, and turned to go downstairs, giving him one last look. "Goodnight, Mr. Carson. I believe the whole household will be in an uproar tomorrow—try to get some rest while you can."

"And you, too," he replied automatically and put one foot on the stair to head up to his room, before a nagging thought hit him. "Mrs. Hughes?"

She looked up from where she stood, half-obscured by the shadows from below the stairs. "Yes, Mr. Carson?"

"Do you ever… give in to spontaneous urges?"

It was _most_ improper to ask her that, he knew: but it felt as if an insubordinate Christmas Elf took up residence in his head and was pushing him, trying to find out how big a fool he could make of himself.

She didn't look offended, though: as a matter of fact, he thought he saw her smirk—although it might have been a play of light.

"More often than you might think."

The door shut quietly behind her, and he still stood there, frozen mid-motion, with quite a silly smile upon his face, and a warm feeling spreading across his chest.

"'More often than you might think'," he whispered to himself, testing the words on his tongue, tasting them in his mouth, and finally started to climb the stairs.

Surprisingly, he found himself looking forward to the commotion of the following day.

_**TBC?...**_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews, I'm thrilled you like the story! This chapter isn't as 'improper' as one might wish, and it concentrates on Elsie, since I intend to make it HER story—but I hope I managed to establish a certain situation here that I'll work from in the following chapters… Let's see where it takes me._

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><p>She was right about the uproar, naturally.<p>

Mr. Crawley came to luncheon with his mother (she'd actually expected him over by breakfast time), smartly dressed and sporting a smile that dimmed the lights on the Christmas tree. He obviously came prepared, too, as mere minutes after he entered the dining room loud exclamations, applause and the sound of champagne cork being eased out of the bottle (of all the _ridiculous_ things: drinking champagne at _luncheon_!) could be heard echoing around the ground floor. Mrs. Hughes rolled her eyes, sent Anna to check whether the family had everything they needed, and swiftly descended the stairs.

She wondered if she should bypass Mr. Carson (who was currently being busy with attending to the gathering in the dining room) and inform the staff about the upcoming wedding, but decided against it—the butler should have the privilege, it was only right.

Even if he did act like an overzealous matron the night before, she thought and smiled to herself at the memory of sheer outrage painted on Mr. Carson's face. The man really should learn to let go and, well, _have fun_ every now and then.

She sighed and shook her head miserably as she sat down in her parlour and opened the accounting books, looking for something to pass the time until the news leaked out to the staff. Judging from the state of things upstairs, she still had at least half an hour of peace on her hands.

She was interrupted, however, after mere ten minutes—and by the person least likely to be seen downstairs.

"Oh, there you are, Mrs. Hughes!"

She all but jumped up and off her chair out of sheer shock. "Your Ladyship… what a surprise," she managed to breeze out, eyebrows rising slightly at the sight of Dowager Countess entering the housekeeper's parlour. "How may I be of service?"

Lady Violet leaned forward, hands placed firmly on her cane. "I believe you are aware of the newest development in Mary's life? Good. I was hoping you knew where _that dress_ was…"

"_That_ dress, your Ladyship?" Mrs. Hughes blinked rapidly, her heart fluttering. "Of course I do, m'lady—but would it be appropriate to—?"

Lady Violet tsked and waved her doubts off with a gloved hand. "It would need quite a lot of work, I'm sure: but I believe you're just the person to do it. Now, let us go and dig the thing up, shall we?"

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><p>"Oh, Granny… it's lovely! Where on Earth did you find it?"<p>

Lady Violet looked like the cat that got the whole cream. "I thought you might like it," she said, trying to keep self-satisfaction off her voice, and failing. "It needs some refreshing, of course, but we shall leave it to Mrs. Hughes. She's the only one who could do it justice, as she was the person to make it, originally."

Lady Mary blinked, surprised, and raised her eyes to the housekeeper's smiling face. "_You_ made it, Mrs. Hughes?"

"I did, m'lady. It was years ago, though, and I'm not sure I could possibly repeat the performance…"

"Nonsense," Lady Violet cut in, rolling her eyes impatiently. "I wouldn't trust anyone else with the job. Now, Mary, if you like to try it on—"

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><p>This was quite surreal altogether.<p>

They were left alone in the sewing room, Lady Mary standing barefoot on a stool with Mrs. Hughes kneeling on a cushion, gathering the frills and trying out a slightly different pouf for the skirt. The sun was slowly going down, but none of them seemed eager to turn on the lights, preferring to stay as they were, suspended between the pinkish hues of the late afternoon.

Lady Mary ran a hand across the ivory silk, fingering the delicate lace adorning the neckline. "Mrs. Hughes, I'm really grateful for this," she said in a low voice, her eyes filled with warmth. "When did you make it?"

"It was right after I came to Downton, and was appointed head housemaid," the housekeeper's tone was quite similar to the lady's. "Miss Sybil had just turned four, and her ladyship wanted to take her to London and present her officially to some of the household friends. She needed something new to wear on the occasion, and since she was between maids at the point, I have been asked to take care of it."

"It must have been a real sensation in London."

Mrs. Hughes shook her head, putting another pin in place. "Her ladyship never wore it. She decided it was much too festive for house calls."

"How dreadful! All your hard work gone to waste!"

"I wouldn't say so, m'lady. Your mother was kind enough to keep it, and she would pull it out of the wardrobe from time to time, wondering whether she could wear it for this or that occasion—and apparently the Dowager Countess kept it in mind, too. Perhaps _this_ is how it should be worn for the first time."

"Did you ever wish to become a lady's maid, Mrs. Hughes?"

The housekeeper sat back on her heels and bit her lip. To Lady Mary, looking down at her, she seemed quite young in the last rays of sun, like the girl she might have been fifteen years ago, when she sat in the servants' hall with a needle box and worked on the dress with now hugged Mary's body so deliciously.

"I don't know," Mrs. Hughes said with a sad little smile lingering in the corner of her mouth. "It would mean quite a different life from the one I'm accustomed to now… but I am proud of my position in this house, and I wouldn't give it up for any other. After all, it seems I can still make use of my sewing skills," she quipped, and stood up to straighten the frills.

"Of course, but… do you ever wonder how things might have turned out if you _did_ apply for the job?"

Mrs. Hughes met her eyes with a long, serious look, and slowly shook her head. "I don't, m'lady. It wouldn't do us any good, having the housekeeper of such big a house daydream about all kinds of impossible scenarios. Besides, were I ever to regret _anything_ in my life, it wouldn't be not having a lady's maid job."

She realized she'd gone too far as soon as the words left her mouth. Lady Mary shot her a smug look, resting her hands on her hips. "What _would_ you regret, Mrs. Hughes?"

_Damn the spontaneity!_

Oh, well, she mused, gathering the remaining pins in her palm and meeting her mistress' eyes, perhaps it was the festive mood enveloping the whole household that made her speak so boldly. And since there was nothing she could possibly lose if she phrased her words correctly…

She told her a little bit of the truth.

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><p>Several hours later, she was back in her parlour with the dress in her lap; a box of lace, ribbons and threads laid open on the desk, a pincushion beside it. She ran her fingers over the fabric, testing its strength, wondering whether it was worth saving, or whether making the whole underlay from scratch was the better option.<p>

Her musings were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Come in," she called out, eyes still fixed on the needlework she was refreshing.

She didn't have to look up to know it was _him_, not with the whiff of his cologne reaching her nostrils as soon as the door opened. "Are you busy? Should I come back later?"

"Oh, no," she protested, putting the dress down and turning towards him. "By all means, do come in, Mr. Carson."

He did so, closing the door behind him and looking at the dress with a frown. "Is that it? I've heard the task had been appointed to you, but I couldn't quite believe it…"

She glared at him, suddenly irritated. "Are you saying I'm incapable of making a wedding dress, Mr. Carson?"

He came to a halt at that, the very tips of his ears turning pink in embarrassment.

"Well, of course not. What I meant was simply… you have much to do anyway, and there are many younger maids in the household…" He realized what he'd said, and the pink spread across the tops of his cheeks, "…that is…"

She couldn't help but laugh out loud. Oh, darling man, once he'd start to dig up a hole for himself, he didn't know where to stop. "I think I know what you meant to say, Mr. Carson, so please take that foot out of your mouth." Heavens, what _was_ it about the atmosphere of the day that made her say such nonsensical things? "I appreciate your concern, but I'm fine. There's still a lot of time to have it finished. Did they set the date?"

He nodded, relieved to be discussing the matters of the family instead of their own. "The beginning of April. That way Lady Sybil… I mean, Mrs. Branson… will be able to attend the ceremony before her _condition_ becomes too strenuous."

"Well, there you go. Plenty of time to turn the dress into a masterpiece even you couldn't find a fault in."

He shot her a sheepish look and sat down on the corner of the settee, looking defeated. "I'm sorry, Mrs. Hughes. I have absolutely no idea what came over me."

She dismissed his apology with a hand wave. "It's probably the wedding spirit, overlapping with the Christmas spirit. Everyone seems rather… perky, today. I thought I saw Mrs. Patmore with a brandy bottle some time ago, and had to intervene—and it wasn't even teatime!... Anyway," she put the dress away, folding it carefully, "was there anything concerning the household that you wanted to discuss with me, or is this a purely social visit?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact there was something," Mr. Carson sat up straight, glad to be back on track. "I've been summoned by Lady Mary a while ago…"

Her heart pounded hard in her chest, and she actually had to bite her lip to stifle a gasp. _This is it, Elsie,_ she thought bitterly, _Lady Mary saw right through your cold, impersonal façade, and told _him_ everything—and more! And now _he_ is going to tell you _exactly_ what he thinks of you…_

"She would like us to go to York Monday next."

_...or not._

"York?" she repeated, blinking. "Whatever for?"

"His lordship would like me to contact a wine merchant there—he's supposed to have some particularly nice vintage wines, and some of it might do quite right for the wedding. And Lady Mary tells me there's a lace-maker there who'd been quite popular among the ladies in London before the War. She would like you to examine her works, and either work from there on your own ideas, or purchase some ready-made lace for the dress."

She nodded, appeased for the time being. Perhaps her secret hadn't been passed onto the very subject of it after all. "Very well. But how do they expect the house to be ran during our absence?"

"The family will be in London—the ladies wish to visit a dressmaker, and his lordship and Mr. Matthew have some business to attend to regarding the wedding. The house will empty, and since Thomas and O'Brien are both accompanying the family, we're quite safe to leave it with Anna."

That was as much of a comfort as she could get, apparently. "Well, in that case, I believe we should comply to Lady Mary's wishes. Should we go by train?"

"Oh, no, that's taken care of, too. Mr. Pratt needs to have the motor checked at a workshop in York, he'll take us. We'd be staying at an inn, recommended by her ladyship, and coming back with Mr. Pratt on Tuesday morning, if it's alright with you."

How could it not be? Everything's already been decided, there was no point in arguing against it. "Certainly. I shall be happy to meet that lace-maker, if Lady Mary thinks her work could help me work on the dress."

"Good," a rarely seen smile lighted up Mr. Carson's features. "I'll bid you goodnight, then—we both have a busy weekend ahead of us."

"Goodnight," she whispered as he opened the door and exited the parlour, leaving her alone with her thoughts—most of which considered the fact that, even if Lady Mary didn't tell Mr. Carson anything regarding what has been spoken of in the sewing room, she'd still managed to arrange things the way that'd enable Elsie to make her feelings known to the man, should she wish so.

_Did_ she wish so? There was no doubt about it whatsoever.

Sighing, Elsie Hughes leaned back in her chair, and contemplated the perspective of going on a 'trip' with Charles Carson, and spending the night in an _inn_, of all the places.

It was going to be one hell of an excursion, she could tell as much.

**TBC…**

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><p><em>AN: Coming up: Elsie and Charles go to York, do some wine tasting, and are forced to delay their return due to unforeseen circumstances… Stay tuned!_


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **I'm SO sorry for taking this long to update! I'm blaming my short attention span, and BBC's "Sherlock"… ;))) Anyway, here it is: and let me just say, before I start, that everything I wrote about wine in this chapter comes from my own experience, and the one Elsie likes best happens to be my favourite as well. (This is called self-insert, I believe). Enjoy!_

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><p>It was quite cold, yet sunny on Monday, and the humming of the motor engine inexplicably made her smile. Mr. Carson was sitting next to her, his nose slightly reddened from the wind and the frost. They didn't talk much, not while the vehicle was in motion—but they've never felt uncomfortable with the silence, and that day was no different. All in all, it looked like a beginning of a charming trip, a chance to get away from their everyday work for a while.<p>

Elsie had to admit she enjoyed this chance—perhaps far more than she should.

The Golden Crown—an inn recommended by his lordship—turned out to be a quiet, family-run place in the centre of York, within walking distance from both the lace maker's shop and the wine cellar Mr. Carson wished to visit. After a quick lunch (nothing that could compare to Mrs. Patmore's cooking, but at least eatable) they decided to try the lace maker first, and proceed with visiting the winery together, Mr. Carson's argument being that two palates were always better than one.

"You do realize that I don't know all that much about wine," she warned him as she stepped out of the door, and at the same moment felt the pavement beneath her feet disappear.

It took a strong, warm hand wrapped protectively around her elbow to keep her upright.

"Careful there," Mr. Carson's low, throaty voice sounded dangerously close to her right ear, "the streets are covered with ice."

She straightened her back, brushing down at her impeccably pressed green coat. "Do you still wish me to accompany you to the winery, Mr. Carson? I am clearly incapable of keeping my balance while sober, not to mention after I'd had a glass or two."

He chuckled into her ear, causing her to shiver, and offered her his arm. "I'll make your wellbeing my priority, Mrs. Hughes. Do not worry."

She let out a quiet sigh and took his arm, relying upon him to guide and support, while wondering secretly where _exactly_ this situation might lead them.

The meeting with the lace maker proved most satisfactory: Elsie left the workshop with a small bag containing two kinds of elaborate lace, geometrical stars and sharp laurel leaves, which would do quite nicely as the finishing of Lady Mary's dress—she already had an idea regarding how the whole thing should be composed, and hummed with impatience, hoping to get back and start the work as soon as possible.

There was still the wine merchant to visit, though, and the night to spend at the inn—she hoped she wouldn't forget anything until she got back to Downton.

She was so engrossed in the thoughts of the dress she hardly took notice of their passage through the snow-covered town, and found herself quite amazed upon arriving at the wine merchant's door: she could have sworn no more than a minute passed since they'd left the lace maker's. Mr Carson smiled at her apparent confusion, and held the door. "We're here, Mrs. Hughes."

The inside of the shop was quite dark, but not in a bad way: cosy rather than looming, with oil lamps placed on small tables and empty wine barrels, and the air smelling of sandal wood and freshly baked gingerbread cookies. The bell over the door rang as they entered the store, and shortly afterwards a pleasant looking, balding man with a tight waistcoat hugging his round belly came out from the back room, offering a big, friendly smile.

"Welcome, welcome!" he greeted them jovially, and proceeded to shake Mr. Carson's hand (to Elsie he offered a polite bow). "Mr. Carson, of Downton Abbey, on wedding business, isn't it? Please, dear sir, come this way, and you, ma'am."

He led them into a small, warm room, where a settee and a round table occupied most of the space, and urged them to get themselves comfortable as he went to fetch the bottles he'd chosen for the tasting. Elsie took off her gloves and hat, gratefully accepted Mr. Carson's gentlemanly help at removing her coat, and sat down on the settee, looking around the room with great interest. Freshly painted walls were covered with pictures and prints explaining the provenience and types of grapes from across the continent, and the ways of producing wine from each of them. To think that Mr. Carson understood all that!... She felt even more respect for the man than she usually did.

The merchant returned shortly, pushing a heavily loaded cart in front of him. "Now, Mr. Carson," he said happily, rubbing his small, fat hands together, "I shall not offend you with presenting the Bordeaux and chardonnay from my collection, as I am sure you could choose from them with your eyes closed. However, I have been informed that Lord Grantham wished to have something special served at his eldest daughter's wedding, and that he seem keen to concentrate on the whites: would you care to try some of my most treasured possessions from this particular group?"

_He speaks as if he was an actor on the stage, about to recite Shakespeare,_ Elsie thought with amusement, and leaned back into the settee. Mr. Carson, on the other hand, straightened his back and nodded, his face gravely serious.

The merchant proceeded to uncork the bottles and pour small amounts of wine into crystal glasses, which he then passed to Elsie and Mr. Carson, explaining with great flourish the properties and aftertastes of each brew. Mr. Carson listened carefully to the man's explanations, and sipped thoughtfully on each presented cup, occasionally pausing to write down a comment in his leather-bound notebook.

As for Elsie, she felt quite overwhelmed by the merchant's knowledge of the subject. Mr. Carson did speak to her about the qualities of the noble drink that was wine on numerous occasions (especially when they were about to share a glass on a quiet evening in his parlour), but everything he'd ever told her was but a drop of water in the sea of information provided by this funny looking man with high pitched voice. She listened carefully, sipping on the proffered wine and nibbling on crackers, cheese and chunks of apples ("Forgive me for not presenting you with a greater variety of fruit, but it _is_ winter, after all…"), utterly transfixed by all the facts and information given to them.

There was but one problem, though.

The words of the wine merchant were fascinating.

The wines were _not_.

Fruity and fresh in the beginning, they turned a bit dull by the end of the sample, and the flat, rubber-like aftertaste they left wouldn't go away, no matter how many bits of apple she ate.

Initially, she blamed her poor knowledge of the subject for the lack of enthusiasm towards the proffered drinks. However, by the time the third refill had been placed before them, Mr. Carson's face contorted into an image of mild disgust: he tried to hide it from the merchant, of course, but Elsie knew him long enough to understand that the selection presented by the man was not impressive in the slightest.

The fourth and fifth glass arrived, without much improvement. Elsie could feel her cheeks turning red from the alcohol intake, but there was no actual _pleasure_ behind the act of drinking. She sighed and shot Mr. Carson a look, which seemed to help him come to a decision.

"Forgive me, sir," he interrupted the merchant with great decorum, "but I must admit that, although I'd be more than happy to order a few boxes of your Bordeaux, these whites are not _exactly_ what we were hoping to get."

"No?" the merchant's face fell, and he wrung his hands in front of himself. "Well, in that case, I'm afraid I don't have much more to offer you…" he paused and frowned, as if trying to remember something. "Although—there's one other thing I'd like you to try. Please, be patient with me for a moment longer."

Elsie sighed and met her companion's eye, raising one eyebrow. "Do you suspect it'll be worth it, Mr. Carson?"

"I honestly couldn't tell, Mrs. Hughes," the man answered, and meant to say some more: but his eyes fixed on Elsie's lips.

She blushed furiously, not quite understanding the situation. "Is something the matter?"

Mr. Carson cleared his throat, and adjusted his cravat, avoiding her eyes. 'You have… a piece of apple on your lip, Mrs. Hughes," he managed to stutter in the end, making Elsie feel increasingly giddy. She quickly extracted a handkerchief from her handbag and wiped her mouth, hiding the grin that threatened to spill across her face.

"Thank you, Mr. Carson," she said after recomposing herself, her heart still beating a little too fast—all the effect of the wine, naturally—and raised her eyes to his, feeling quite bold for no apparent reason (other than the wine). "I do hope I didn't embarrass you."

"Not at all," came his stiff reply, uttered without looking her in the face. She meant to say something more, to get a slightly more emotional reaction from him—to make him look at her the way he did before—but the merchant chose that precise moment to return, a decanter filled with golden liquid in his hands.

"Forgive me for keeping you waiting," he huffed, refilling their glasses. "Please try this one: it's a speciality I'd purchased before the war, highly popular at that time."

Elsie took up her glass and sniffed at the contents suspiciously. Her eyes widened in pleasant surprise: the wine smelled like the sun over the green fields in spring, like roses and apple tree blossoms, like joy incarnated. She took a sip, and all but moaned in delight. The taste was exquisite, deep as if the wine had been mixed with honey, not at all like the dull, sour Rieslings they'd tasted before. From the look on Mr. Carson's face, she could tell this wine had finally met his expectations.

"Pray tell, what is it?" Mr. Carson asked, licking his lips. "I don't believe I've ever tasted anything like it."

"It's called a _blanc de noir_, Mr. Carson," the merchant replied, looking quite pleased with their reaction. "The trick about it is that it's made from violet grapes, peeled before they're squashed. Therefore, it should look and taste like any other red wine—but it doesn't. That's what makes it so special."

Mr. Carson took another sip and nodded, scribbling down some notes. "And do I understand correctly that this is a French invention?"

The merchant suddenly looked ashamed. "Actually, sir… it comes from the valley of Mosel."

"A _German_ wine?"

"Yes, sir. It'd been quite popular before the war—but now I find myself with hundreds of bottles, nineteen-twelve or older, and nobody wishes to buy it. I usually don't take it out during tastings—but since you were determined to try something different from your typical white, I decided to take the liberty…"

"I see. Well, this is all rather complicated…"

"But why should it be?" Elsie asked, putting her glass down with a loud thump. "We see Germans now as the nation that fought against us in a war, but does that really mean we must resign from the pleasures of the wine that was most likely manufactured by people who were farmers and peace lovers? Why should we let the prejudice we hold against the Germans as a whole influence our opinion about this delicious drink? Wouldn't the winemaker be happy if we enjoyed the fruits of his work, even if we are English?"

_Wouldn't anyone want to be seen as the person they truly are, for example a woman hopelessly in love, rather than a cold, almost clockwork personage, such as a housekeeper?_

She paused and bit her lip, deeply regretting the sudden outburst. If Mr. Carson read something more into it… well, she might as well burst into flames of sheer embarrassment.

Fortunately, her reasoning seemed to have exactly the effect she'd hoped for. "I believe you are right, Mrs. Hughes," Mr. Carson's deep, husky voice resonated close to her ear. "We should at the very least leave this decision to his lordship: after all, the wine _is_ remarkable."

She looked at him, feeling unusually warm inside, and silently cursing herself for drinking so much of the wine. For it was _clearly_ the drink talking, not her, wasn't it? She never would have spoken out so boldly, so openly, so…

He was looking at her with the most curious expression, one she'd never seen in his eyes before. She parted her lips, wanting to say something, _anything_…

"Should I pack you a case, then, just for a trial?" the merchant asked eagerly, and the spell was broken.

"Of course," Mr. Carson's voice was cool, business-like and perfectly measured. "Please send it to The Golden Crown, along with these," he carefully tore a page out of his notebook, and handed it over to the merchant. "Thank you for your time. We should really head back now, right, Mrs. Hughes?"

She nodded and stood up hastily, only to be forced to grab onto the table when her legs proved not to function _quite_ as well as they usually did. Her head swam a little, and the need to curse her own blasted stupidity became even more pronounced.

Fortunately, both men were still discussing the details of the order, so none of them noticed her pitiful state. She managed to steady herself, put on her coat and walk out to the front room with pride and grace more suiting the housekeeper of Downton Abbey, and by the time the goodbyes were exchanged, she believed herself completely free of the alcohol's influence.

They stepped out to the street to find the sparsely placed gas lamps already lit, the few passersby hurrying home through the snow covered town. Elsie breathed in deeply, the frosty air tickling her nose, and smiled to herself as she and Mr. Carson fell into an easy rhythm, their pace matched after years of walking together through the corridors of the Abbey.

"I trust that you didn't find the tasting too dull," Mr. Carson said after a moment of silence, disturbed only by the snow crunching under their boots and a distant sound of horse hooves. Elsie shook her head, offering her companion a smile.

"Of course not, Mr. Carson, it was very pleasant. I do apologize, however, for speaking my mind so openly…"

"Nonsense," he waved her concerns off. "You said what you thought was true, and it proved to be a valuable insight into the matter. I hope you know you can always speak openly in my presence, Mrs. Hughes. I really appreciate your honesty."

_Oh, if only this was true!_, Elsie sighed inwardly and looked up at Mr. Carson's warm and friendly smile, temporarily losing interest in the surface she was walking upon.

She didn't really feel the fall: only a curious sensation of flying, followed by a sharp pain in her ankle. She cried in alarm, and came crushing down upon the icy sidewalk.

The last thing she remembered before the darkness enveloped her, was a pair of warm, strong arms lifting her up and embracing her tenderly.

* * *

><p>"How serious is it, doctor?"<p>

"Fortunately, the ankle is only twisted, but not broken. Nevertheless, I'd advise the patient to stay abed for the next forty-eight hours, and keep the leg elevated. I trust that you could postpone your journey a day or two, Mr. Hughes?"

He blinked in amazement and frowned. "Do excuse me, doctor, but my name is _Carson_."

"Oh. Apologies, Mr. Carson. I simply assumed that, since the lady's name is _Mrs._ Hughes, and you're travelling together—"

"We only work together. We are _not_ married."

The doctor smirked and rubbed at his nose. "But you _did_ carry the lady back here in your arms, didn't you? That's quite a trouble to go into for a co-worker, if you ask me."

"There were no carriages available!"

"Alright, alright, forget I ever said anything! The question remains: will Mrs. Hughes be able to rest her leg for another two days, or should I put it into a temporary plaster?"

He frowned and quickly went through all the options in his mind. The family was still in London, Anna could easily run the house for another day without Thomas or Miss O'Brien scheming against her, and a housekeeper with a plastered ankle wouldn't do anyone any good… "We shall stay here for two more nights, if that is your advice, doctor."

"Very well then. I shall take my leave now: please make sure the patient gets sufficient rest. Goodnight, Mr. Carson."

He was left alone in the hall, pondering the situation. She's given him a real fright, falling down like that, and losing her conscience, to make the matters worse! And to be mistaken for her _husband_!... He was at a complete loss as to what he should do.

He looked up at the ceiling, imagining Mrs. Hughes in her room, still shaken from the accident, probably cold and shocked… He needed to do something for her, to help her through this difficult time…

He went over to the clerk at the counter, and pulled a telegram pad towards himself. "Could you see it sent out tonight, please?"

"Certainly, sir. Anything else you would like the boy to take care of in town for you, sir?"

He furrowed his brow and tapped the tip of the pencil against his chin. "Actually, there might be one thing…"

**TBC…**


	4. Chapter 4

_**A/N: **Thank you so much for all your lovely reviews! A big, toothy grin goes out to TeaPowder who called me 'an evil genius' for changing Charles' name to Hughes ;) Much obliged!_

_I'm pulling something in this chapter that might remind some of you of a scene from _The French Lieutenant's Woman_ (in case you haven't seen the movie, please make sure that you do, it's a joy)—alas, I didn't go as far along with it as I might have wanted to. Perhaps in the next chapter, hmm?..._

* * *

><p>Her leg throbbed, ached and itched.<p>

Her _pride_ was in an even more miserable condition.

Leaving Downton on that very morning, Elsie had hoped that the days spent with Mr. Carson away from the domestic chores and chaos that took the reign over the Abbey would help the two of them relax, and perhaps see the other in slightly different a light than usual.

What she did _not_ intend, however, was to drink too much wine and twist her ankle on an icy sidewalk, and much less to faint like a blushing virgin!

Elsie groaned and hit a pillow with her fist. The pillow, crumpled and slightly damp, didn't react.

Perhaps she was wrong when she thought she could change it all, change her life. The fact that she'd been offered to make Lady Mary's dress was a pleasant surprise, a break from the everyday bustle—but it didn't change the fact that she was still who she had been: Elsie Hughes, the housekeeper of Downton Abbey, a bitter woman caring only about her work, and the efficiency with which her staff performed their duties.

Elsie supposed that, for most of the time, the description was a rather adequate one. Whether she was happy with the way things were was another matter entirely—which was why she'd jumped happily in when a chance for bettering her life presented itself to her.

Given the way it all turned out, Elsie wished everything had stayed the way it was. After all, what was a little bit of unhappiness, compared to… all _this_?

Her grim musings were interrupted by a sharp knock on the door. Before she had a chance to answer, the knob turned and the round, red face of the maid who'd helped her undress and get into bed mere minutes ago peeked into the room. "Supper's here, ma'am."

Elsie frowned and rolled her eyes impatiently. "I _told_ you, I'm not hungry…"

"Yes, ma'am, but the gentleman insisted…"

Elsie felt her cheeks burn as Mr. Carson walked into her room after the fretting maid, carrying a heavily laden tray covered with clean, linen cloth. "Good evening, Mrs. Hughes," he said in a pleasant, almost cheerful tone. "I thought you might use some company. That would be all," he added, dismissing the maid who left hurriedly, closing the door behind her.

Elsie couldn't quite meet her companion's eyes, so she kept them fixed on the blanket covering her injured foot. "I'm not sure I'd make a good company tonight, Mr. Carson."

"How are you feeling?" he asked, ignoring her protests and putting the tray on a small table by her bed. "Does it hurt much?"

"It doesn't hurt as much as it _irritates_ me." She sighed and finally raised her eyes to his. "I'm very sorry to have caused you all this trouble."

"Nonsense. I'm happy I were there to help you out, that's all. Now, would you care to join me for dinner?"

Elsie protested a little for the sake of it, but in the end she was forced to admit that she was, in fact, quite hungry. The contents of the tray—cold chicken, some buttered toasts, simple selection of cheese and an apple tart—disappeared quickly, divided between the two of them. Mr. Carson poured the tea, and made sure she ate enough, raising his eyebrows each time she tried to politely decline another helping.

Finally, the food was gone, and Mr. Carson revealed the last objects that remained on the tray: a decanter of wine and two glasses. Elsie frowned at him and bit her lip.

"I would have thought that from now on you'd rather keep the wine as far away from me as possible, Mr. Carson."

He actually chuckled at that, and poured the wine. "I do not believe that overindulgence is going to be a problem of yours, Mrs. Hughes. In fact, if anyone was to take the blame for your accident, it should be me, not you."

She blinked and stared at him for a moment. Had he been drinking some more, or was she still under the influence of the alcohol? "I'm afraid I don't quite understand what you mean."

He handed her the glass with an apologetic smile. "I knew the conditions of the streets—and having seen you slip once already, I should have offered you my arm for support, instead of letting you walk and risk injury. I am very sorry, and I hope you accept this simple token of my profound regret, and forgive me."

Given the flourish with which he spoke, the dear man _must have_ had a drink before dinner, but Elsie found that she didn't mind it all that much: especially after she tasted the wine, and her eyes widened in surprise. "But this is…"

Mr. Carson nodded, clearly pleased with himself. "I took the liberty of purchasing one bottle for private use."

She licked her lips and smiled, before taking another sip of the wine. "Thank you for letting me share it with you. It really is exquisite."

"I must admit I'm glad we decided to try it, despite my initial doubts." He looked down, rolling the glass between his fingers. "What you said about us being prejudiced against German wines… I'm grateful you made me see the other side of the coin."

Elsie nodded, cupping the wine glass in her hand. "I simply had to say something. It would be a terrible waste to let the matter rest."

"Was that one of those 'spontaneous urges' you'd told me you gave into?"

She blushed furiously, astonished that he remembered such trivial matters. "Would you be surprised if I said yes?"

"Not at all. I'd be amazed of the fact that I still seem to know very little about you, despite the fact that we've been good friends for so long."

Elsie gave him a smile and shook her head. "You know more about me than any other person in the household, Mr. Carson." _And still, you don't know enough._

"As you do in regard to me." He put his glass away, folding his hands on his knees. "And yet, I was quite surprised not so long ago, when you agreed to work on Lady Mary's dress, and once again today, when you expressed your feelings regarding the wine." He gave her a long, thoughtful look from under his eyelashes—the kind that made her feel hot and cold all at once. "All these years, and you're still a mystery to me."

There was something warm, affectionate and intent in his eyes that made Elsie's heart fluttered like a wild bird caught in a hunter's net; made her mouth dry and her skin hot; made her want to say something that would finally take the blinders off his eyes…

Before she could say anything, however, a great wide yawn escaped from her mouth, making her gasp in exasperation and hide her face behind her hands. "I'm so sorry!" she said quickly, not daring to look Mr. Carson in the face, "I must be much more tired than I actually feel."

"Of course you are," Mr. Carson stood up hastily, gathering the empty plates and piling them on the tray. "I've kept you awake too long while what you really need right now is rest."

Elsie wouldn't agree with this assessment, not in the slightest—but given the sudden interruption to the promising mood of the evening there was nothing left for her to do but to nod and offer her companion a small smile. "I'm glad you did. At least it took my mind off this… _nuisance_," she winced and gestured towards her ankle.

"Will you be alright now? Should I call for the maid?"

"No, thank you, I'm fine for the night; I just need to get under the—_ouch_!"

The sound Elsie emitted as she tried to manoeuvre her injured leg under the coverlet was most unbecoming and unladylike, but she couldn't possibly help it as the temporarily forgotten pain blinded her for one short second. Before she had a chance to recover, Mr. Carson was by her side, holding her hand and searching her face with troubled eyes. "Elsie, what happened?"

She all but screamed again at the sound of his voice speaking her name. "It's nothing, really: I must have pulled something in my ankle as I moved, and…"

"Say no more," he stopped her, leaned in and scooped her up in his arms. "You may think you're alright, but you're not, and you need to learn to accept help from those willing to provide it to you."

She should have protested, or throw some sarcastic remark back at him, but she couldn't: not when his arms were wrapped around her, and he was lifting her off the bed and depositing her ever so gently on the chair he'd been sitting in before, his face closer to hers than it has ever been; not when she could feel the soft fabric of his jacket under her suddenly trembling fingertips, the rich aroma of his aftershave, cinnamon and more, smoother and deeper, filling her nostrils and enveloping her completely…

He slowly let go and turned towards the bed, lifting the coverlet and the sheets out of the way before he stood facing her once more, reaching out, his eyes silently asking her permission—which she granted him by doing what she had wanted to do for quite a while now, perhaps ever since the day she first met him, much younger and considerably thinner than now, but still the same man, strong and responsible and trustworthy and _fascinating_…

She raised her arms and slid them around his neck as he picked her up, only to lay her down a mere second later, his hands tugging the sheets and blankets around her body, no longer touching her. His face loomed over hers for the shortest of moments, but he kept his eyes down, hardly looking at her.

Elsie couldn't for the life of her understand what was going on.

Oh, the _facts_ were simple: she screamed in pain, and Mr. Carson hurried to her rescue. The _implications_ of said facts were much more complicated, and she had absolutely no idea what to make of them.

The swift change of her position (from the bed to the chair to the bed again) took place in silence save for that initial remark, and only now, as Mr. Carson straightened and took a step back, did Elsie's voice come back to her. "Thank you," she said, and raised one hand to cover her burning cheek. "I'm causing you nothing but trouble, I'm afraid."

"Do not say that," he protested sharply, finally meeting her gaze. "Never assume that being with you, in any capacity, causes me trouble."

Elsie blinked, and bit her lip, unsure how to react to such an admonition. There were so many things she wanted and needed to say—but was now the time to say them? Mr. Carson must have seen her hesitation, for he cleared his throat and hurriedly crossed the distance between the side of her bed and the door.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Hughes," he said in his most intimidating butler-voice. "I'll see you in the morning." With that, he was gone, leaving a very distressed housekeeper, with a twisted ankle and a pounding heart, sitting in the middle of her bed and sniffing for the remnants of his cologne in the air.

Did she dream it? Was it all a figment of her mind, a trick of eager imagination? It couldn't have been… could it?

"Goodnight, Charles," she whispered to herself and turned the lamp off, plunging the room into darkness as deep and menacing as the one in her heart.

* * *

><p><strong>TBC…<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

_**A/N: **SO sorry it took me so long to update this! I blame the fabulous books of China Mieville: most captivating steampunk I've read in ages._

_Anyway, thank you for all your wonderful reviews—I hope that this chapter fulfils your expectations! It did so to me… ;)_

* * *

><p>"Now, now, there's no need to—"<p>

"_No need_? I assume you have everything figured out, then, and my personal opinion on the matter doesn't count?"

"I'm simply following your doctor's orders, Mrs. Hughes. You are not fit to travel today, that's the professional's opinion."

"But I _feel_ fine! Is it too much to ask to be taken home? Couldn't I simply rest for another day in my own bed, if Doctor Clarkson deems it absolutely necessary?"

Charles pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and index finger, feeling an impending headache. "Mrs. Hughes, there's no telling what could happen if you strained your leg while it's still healing. I insist you give it a rest until tomorrow. The family is still in London. I have already arranged everything with his lordship, and Anna. It's all been taken care of. Now if you excuse me, I have some urgent matters to attend to in town. I bid you a very good day."

He exited the room, and let out a deep, sad sigh as the door closed behind him. Why did she have to make everything so _difficult_ on today of all the days? Especially after the pleasant (up to a point) atmosphere they'd found themselves enveloped by the previous evening…

* * *

><p>The reason behind Elsie's behaviour that morning was <em>precisely<em> the pleasant atmosphere of the previous evening, and the easiness with which it had dissolved completely.

In the light of the events leading to Mr. Carson's leaving her room so abruptly, she was positively frightened of what could possibly happen were they to spend yet another night at the inn, and eat yet another dinner together.

She couldn't find any explanation for the manner of Mr. Carson's departure—other than the fact that he'd finally seen through the charade, uncovered the last bit of the mystery he claimed she was to him: and found himself deeply displeased by the revelation.

How could she face him again after _that_?

It would be easier at Downton: the place that was _hers_, in a way, where she felt safe, protected, more confident than here, in the strange, impersonal space of the inn room.

It would be easier to look into the eyes of the man she'd loved for as long as she could remember, and see disdain, disappointment and contempt in them, if there was a room she could go to in the evening and rest, undisturbed by said man showing up unexpectedly to have dinner with her.

Even if having dinner with him ranked quite high on the list of things Elsie liked, and _wanted_, to do.

"Would that be all, ma'am?"

The maid's voice brought her back from the reverie she'd fallen into. She blinked rapidly and looked up at the girl, standing obediently by the door. The look on her face told Elsie at least some of her emotions must have been reflected in her features, and it made her feel even angrier.

She would _not_ mope or tear her hair because of what happened. She'd learnt to hide her true feelings long ago; surely she could continue to do so in spite of the clearly palpable tension that arose from last night's events.

She simply needed something to take her mind off things. To make her forget the elation she felt when Charles' arms cradled her, made her feel wanted, loved, and oh so _young_.

"Actually… would you mind doing a little shopping for me?"

* * *

><p>She ignored the exasperated protests of the maid (and, more importantly, the dull pain in her leg), and moved from the bed to the armchair by the fireplace, resting the injured limb on a footstool and wrapping a thick, warm blanket around herself.<p>

By lunch time, the girl who'd agreed to go shopping for her, came back, and Elsie eagerly unpacked her newly acquired threads, crotchet needle and rounded piece of supporting wood, determined to start the work on the centrepiece of lace she wanted to add to Lady Mary's dress.

Initially, she wanted to work against the dress itself, matching the shades of thread and fabric as she went, but seeing that she was still _trapped_ in York, she could at least start the trial version, couldn't she?

It turned out surprisingly well, not only in terms of the lace itself, but also when one took into consideration the amount of thinking she did while working on the delicate piece. _My life is quite similar to this,_ she thought, brushing her thumb along the elaborate pattern, _it's not only about what_ is_ there, but also about what _isn't_: the breaks in the lace, the free space, the air. Perhaps there really is no sense in wanting to have everything, when one already has as much as I do…_

_Perhaps risking the steady friendship for the uncertain love isn't such a splendid idea after all._

She almost made herself believe it.

A knock on the door interrupted the chain of her thoughts. "Come in," she said, frowning: the maid has only just brought her lunch tray up, surely she didn't expect the convalescent woman to eat it all in five minutes?...

Mr. Carson's drawn, ashen face appeared in the crack of the door, and Elsie instantly felt her traitorous heart contract with worry. "What happened?" she blurted out, hastily putting the half-finished lace down. "You look like you've seen a ghost!"

He nodded and rubbed absentmindedly at his forehead, walking across the room to slump inelegantly into an armchair standing next to hers. "Here," he said, pushing a newspaper into her hands, "see for yourself."

She immediately recognized the paper as one of sir Richard's rags, and bit her lip as she quickly scanned the proffered article. There were no explicit details (thank the Lord for small mercies!), but the overall tone was deeply vicious, openly suggesting that an underlying motive existed behind the recently announced engagement of Lady Mary Crawley to her cousin, Mr. Matthew Crawley—namely, the need for the family to hide away some past indiscretions on the lady's part.

Elsie sighed and folded the paper, placing it as far away from herself on the table as she could. "And I thought they'd parted on slightly better terms…"

Mr. Carson nodded gravely, leaning forward as if the weight of the world came to rest upon his shoulders. "It certainly looked that way. But we have perhaps been too hasty to forget about that man's vile character."

"But surely he cannot harm them enough to… to call off the wedding?"

He shook his head, but the expression in his eyes told her he'd been thinking the same thing. "Not _call off_, naturally—but it's bound to delay it. And we both know they've waited long enough already: the last thing the need right now is further difficulties."

"Do you suppose they already know?"

"I don't think they have the subscription in London. Still, it's just the question of time."

She looked down at the table, the lovingly prepared lace, the offensive paper. "Perhaps we really should go back today. Make sure everything is ready for their return."

"No," he protested, raising his hand. "Some other time I'd perhaps insist on getting back to Downton as soon as possible—but _you_ are my priority now, no matter what's going on. The family will be away until the end of the week. There is nothing we could do to help them now."

She felt incredibly warm inside, seeing him like this—tired to the point of exhaustion, but still caring about her, _for_ her, more than he did for the family he'd always been closely attached to. "Thank you, Mr. Carson," she whispered, searching his face with bright eyes. "This means a lot to me. More than—"

"Mrs. Hughes," he raised his hand again, silencing her, a quiet, yet desperate plea in his eyes. "Please do not say anything you don't mean. It would—pain me greatly if you did."

There was a quiet 'click' inside her head, and everything fell into place: his behaviour on the previous evening—and so many evenings before, she realized—the reason behind his abrupt departure from her room; the fact that he brought her the wine, that he insisted on taking care of her…

The way he looked at her at the wine tasting.

The feel of his body against hers.

The fear he must have been feeling at all this: very similar to her own trepidation and doubt.

She realized that, once again, the room was completely silent, and Mr. Carson—_Charles_—was looking at her expectantly, hoping she'd say something to either break the spell, or let them both fall deeper into the dream: but she had long passed the point at which she might have considered _talking_ an appropriate way to solve this riddle.

After all, wasn't _she_ the one who'd claimed to be spontaneous?

This was most improper, she knew that—and couldn't possibly care less.

Steadying herself with a hand placed firmly on the lapel of his coat, she pushed herself upwards, as much as her injured leg allowed it, and pressed her lips against his.

The whole world seemed to stop and breathe the moment in.

And for the first time in her life, she felt complete.

**TBC…**


	6. Chapter 6

The second that passed between her lips touching Charles', and being swept up and onto his lap, was possibly the longest one in Elsie's life.

The following hour, spent almost entirely on kissing the man she loved, was (unsurprisingly) the shortest.

They didn't talk much in those first minutes, both of them too shocked and too awed to say anything but the other's name, over and over, in between kisses, embraces, and sweet caresses. Their eyes shone with the same light, and their hands trembled ever so gently as they discovered the warmth of the skin, the softness of the hair, the hotness of pressure points that caused the other to gasp and lean in for yet another kiss.

Elsie marvelled at the softness of Charles' skin and the rich, minty taste of his mouth: silently, she congratulated herself on making the bold move and finally kissing him, even though she suspected she might not find the strength to ever stop doing so once she started. Pausing at one point, when their initial frenzy turned into sweet, slow build of a pleasure meant to last rather than burn, she threaded her fingers through his mussed hair (he hadn't used as much brilliantine in the morning as he used to do in Downton, and the fact quickly took its toll) and smiled at him, brushing the tops of his cheeks with her thumbs.

He smiled back, his fingers drawing small circles down her sides, and turned his head to the side to kiss her right palm. "Is that what I get for telling you not to speak your mind?" he asked jokingly, arching an eyebrow at her. "Because if it is, I might be forced to revise my opinion regarding your being frank with me."

She chuckled and rested her forehead against his for a brief moment, before leaning back to look at him again. "It's what you get for being you," she informed him, and blushed slightly under the intensity of his gaze. "And in this case, it's my way for saying 'I'm sorry for not speaking my mind yesterday.'"

It was his turn to chuckle, and steal a kiss (or two). "You should have seen the look on your face. I thought I must have scared you to no end, swooping you up like that."

"You didn't _scare_ me. You surprised me. And given the amount of wine I'd drunk that day… I wasn't sure if the whole scene wasn't but a figment of my imagination."

The words were out before she could stop herself from speaking, and from the sudden change in his breath she knew what he understood from them. "Have you ever… imagined… this?" he asked in a low, raspy voice, its vibration resonating throughout Elsie's body resting against his. She shivered and averted her eyes, but did not remove her hands from his head.

"Perhaps I shouldn't answer that. You might get cocky."

His hands tightened on her back, pressing her a little closer to him. "Is that a 'yes'?"

"That's a 'maybe'."

He smiled and brushed his lips across her left cheek, towards her ear, lingering there for a few highly appreciated moments. "Might I at least hope to hear more on the subject in the near future?"

"That depends on whether you manage to stay in my good graces."

"Perhaps you could advise me on how I could accomplish such a noble task?"

"I don't think you… _oh_… need any help from me in that department."

He paused his ministrations and gave her a warm, yet serious look. "Believe me, Elsie, when I tell you—I do."

She frowned. "How so?"

The tips of his ears turned pink. "I—do not claim to possess much experience in the area. And I wouldn't like to disappoint you."

Up to that moment, she didn't realize her heart could beat even faster than it did. "I'm sure we will find a way to make it work," she said, and was about to pull Charles in for yet another kiss, when a maid's voice could be heard from the corridor. Elsie sighed and bit her lip in silent frustration. "She'll be wanting to collect the tray," she said, gesturing towards her uneaten lunch.

Charles nodded, and lifted her up without further ado, helping her to get back to her own armchair. "I have denied you a chance to eat. I'm sorry."

"Do you hear me complaining?" she teased, and reached up to straighten his tie, _accidentally_ placing a chaste kiss to the base of his throat.

"Wicked woman," he groaned with a smile that did not convey any irritation whatsoever. "What am I ever going to do with you once we get back to Downton?"

She wanted to reply with a light, teasing remark, but stopped herself from speaking upon seeing something much more serious in his eyes.

There was a knock on the door, and the maid's head appeared in the crack. "All done with your lunch, ma'am?"

_I wouldn't say that._ "I'm afraid I've lost my appetite." _For food._

The maid shook her head disapprovingly, and collected the untouched tray. "Should I bring you some fresh tea then, ma'am?"

_Forget the tea_, Elsie meant to say, but Charles cut in with an air of importance: "Tea would be nice, thank you. And perhaps some biscuits, if they're fresh."

"I'll see what they've got in the kitchens, Mr. Hughes," the girl said and left with a curtsey, leaving a highly amused Elsie alone with a highly embarrassed Charles.

"_Mr. Hughes_? Is there anything I should know, Charles?" she quipped and laughed merrily at his obvious discomfort.

"She must have heard the doctor call me that yesterday," he mumbled, not looking her in the eye. "He figured that, since we've been travelling together, we must have been—"

"And what did you tell him, pray?" she interrupted gently, not quite ready to hear certain words in this particular context.

"That we were simply friends and co-workers, not… well."

She nodded, and reached out to take his hand in hers. "It's alright, Charles."

He frowned, rubbing her fingers with his thumb. "Is it? Shouldn't we… talk about it?"

"If you wish. What's on your mind?"

"Well… For instance, this," he gestured to the air between them, "what does that mean? How does it change us?"

She furrowed her brow, for once completely calm and at peace, even though she'd gone over this very question (in a hypothetical state, naturally) many a time since she got to know the man who was currently sitting by her side, holding her hand. "I don't believe it _changes_ us. Who we are, what we feel. Or if it does, it's certainly not for worse. It simply… adds something new."

"Makes us better," he nodded, and kissed her hand with reverence.

"I believe so." She paused, tightening her fingers around his. "Do you?"

The look in his eyes told her everything she needed to know, and his words only served to confirm it. "Elsie, I have never felt this way about anyone. Were you to tell me you regretted this… that you wanted things to go back to the way they were before… I would respect your wish, with utmost sorrow, but I would always cherish these moments. I hope you realize that."

This wasn't a confession of love, not exactly—but it sure felt like one. "I do," she answered earnestly. "And I know it shall require some effort to make it work once we get back to Downton, but…" she shot him a playful glance through her eyelashes, "…it's nothing we couldn't cope with, isn't it, _Mr. Carson_?"

This earned an eye roll, a groan, and a kiss that took her breath away. "If you keep on looking at me like that, _Mrs. Hughes_, we're bound to be caught red-handed by our employers within a week from now."

"Perhaps you'll tire of me, and get back to your old, proper self long before that week is over."

He shook his head vehemently, and kissed her again, hands wandering down her back to caress, squeeze and rub in a way that disproved all his claims of incompetence. "My dear, dear Elsie," he whispered after they'd finally parted, panting and flushed in a way usually associated with people half their age, "I believe that you have awaken a very _improper_ side of my character."

She grinned at him, and pretended to gasp in awe. "Oh, my. What on Earth shall we do about that?"

"Well, I expect you to take the responsibility, and deal with the matter as adequately as possible."

She was about to prove to him _her_ competence in dealing with him, but they were interrupted once more, this time by the maid carrying the tea tray. Charles took it from the girl and poured Elsie a cup, before pressing a kiss to her temple and heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" she asked him with a frown he'd only ever seen her give to the most incompetent of maids.

"To my room. If I stay here, you won't eat anything at all, and I need you to keep your strength up."

"Oh?" she quirked an eyebrow. "Whatever for?"

"For going back to Downton tomorrow morning, for once! I don't recall you mentioning your leg within the past few hours, so it's probably mending, am I correct?"

"Somehow, the thought of it slipped from my mind," she admitted, sighing inwardly at the thought of returning to their everyday life—the exact thing she'd longed for on that very morning.

Charles seemed to have noticed her displeasure, for he gave her a brilliant smile and—could it be?—the tiniest of winks. "Before we go, however… would you mind if I dropped by this evening? There's still a little wine left in that bottle… and I have heard of an intriguing way of enjoying the drink, one that may require your help…"

She let out a small, yet clearly audible moan at the suggestion, and watched him retreat with a smug grin, before picking up her teacup and smiling to herself.

She should have been outraged. After all, he's just suggested something so _utterly_ improper, that it should have wrecked her prim-and-proper housekeeper nerves!...

Fortunately, she found herself anticipating the evening rather than dreading it, which bode well for Charles' wine experiment.

She wondered if there was still time for her to have a bath, and change into something she had hidden on the bottom of her bag before leaving Downton (a little wishful thinking on her part, but one that might yet to prove most useful indeed).

After all, he wasn't by far the only one allowed to lose their sense of propriety, was he?...

Elsie Hughes put the cup back down, pulled the bell rope to call the maid, and started to remove the pins from her hair.

**The End**

_**A/N: **Yes, my dears, that's a wrap! …Well, almost: there will be an epilogue, currently in the works, which I hope you will all enjoy!_

_Thank you very much for staying with me and reading this (utterly silly) story: and may Fellowes give us a lot more Carson/Hughes in the third series than in the previous ones!..._


	7. Chapter 7

**Epilogue**

_Summer 1922_

Elsie startled a little at the knock on the door, and frowned at the clock. Was that the time already? She closed her book and stood up, stretching her back as she crossed the short distance between her chair and the door, and opened them to reveal two highly awaited guests.

"Are we too early? Were you in the middle of something?"

"Not at all, Mrs. Branson," she smiled at the young woman and her companion. "Let me just get my coat."

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><p>"I'm really sorry to bother you, on today of all the days," the former Lady Sybil Crawley apologized once more as they walked across the lawn, towards the small ruins on the hill. "It's just that everyone's away… and he likes you more than his own family anyway…"<p>

Elsie smiled warmly at both of them. "It's perfectly fine, milady. I still have a couple of hours before… well, we both know before _what_, and I'd be thrilled to spend them in the company of such a dashing gentleman."

Said gentleman, Robert Patrick Branson, aged two years and two months to the day, looked up at her and gave her a dazzling, heart-warming grin. Since the Bransons came to spent the summer at Downton, almost three months ago, the boy—as rebellious, stubborn and independent as both his parents combined—took and instant liking in Elsie, much to the dismay of his grandmother and great-grandmother. Fortunately, Miss Eleanor Catherine Crawley was born a mere week after little Robbie arrived at his mother's former home, and the weight of the world has shifted over to the Crawley House before any outbursts of jealousy regarding the boy's affections could rise.

Elsie didn't mind it in the slightest. She toyed with the thought of retiring for quite a while (almost two years, if she was to be honest), and had long before started to train Mrs. Bates as her successor in the post of housekeeper. Having turned sixty this spring, and finding herself with an armful of a little boy who refused to be taken care of by anyone else (including his own parents), she decided it was high time to hang her keys on a peg, so to speak.

Her announcement had raised many protests, especially from the Lord and Lady Grantham, but Elsie was adamant. After all, she reasoned with them, she wouldn't be going away completely, not with so many things still tying her up to the house: and if she handed her post over to Mrs. Bates, she would have much more time to handle all the tasks that hung over her head for weeks on end.

So she handed the keys over to Anna, emptied her desk, and put what remained of her life as a housekeeper into a chest hidden in the back of her new closet in a cottage closest to the big house, the lodging chosen for her by Lord Grantham.

And now, nearly two months later, she had to say she was enjoying herself immensely. She always thought retirement would be a gloomy, monotonous time: but thanks to little Robbie, who was slowly becoming the second most important man in her life, she still had a lot of things to do and to look forward to. Not to mention all of the work that Lady Mary insisted on her finishing within the next few weeks!...

"Is this for Ellie's christening?" Mrs. Branson asked, pointing at the small basket Elsie carried, filled to the brim with threads, ribbons, and white silk. "May I see it?"

They reached the ruins, so Elsie put the basket down on a table-like piece of stone and pulled out a beautiful silken dress, adorned with lace and small bows of ribbon. "It still needs work," she said, frowning. "I'm missing one vital piece of lace here," she ghosted her fingers over the top of the dress. "Perhaps I'd be able to finish it today."

"Not _today_, surely!" Mrs. Branson exclaimed, laughing. "Not with the big party starting in a few hours, and my roughneck of a son keeping you busy?"

Said roughneck came closer to them and stood on tiptoe, holding on to Elsie's skirt, to take a look at the dress. "Lace pretty," he stated firmly, looking up at both women for approval.

Mrs. Branson laughed and scooped Robbie up into her arms, kissing him soundly. "My, my, what have you done with him? A Branson, appreciating the fine art of embroidery?"

Elsie shrugged, and reached out to push the reddish hair off the boy's forehead. "I'm afraid he's much more taken with the way the crochet needle moves when I work," she explained. "It reminds him of the sword fighting he'd seen in his lordship's books."

"Now that sounds more like him… Very well, Robbie," Sybil turned to her son, holding up his chin to make him look her in the eye, "you be a good boy, and don't cause any trouble, or you won't go to the party. Understood?"

The boy nodded and kissed his mother, before being handed over to Elsie.

They walked around the meadow, Robbie asking about flowers and grasshoppers in a serious, adult-like manner of his that Elsie had always found endearing. Then they sat by the ruins, sharing some milk and cinnamon cupcakes, and Elsie told him stories of brave knights and beautiful princesses as she worked on the lace piece for Lady Mary's daughter.

Robbie stretched out on a blanket, arms extended behind his head, and looked at the sky, squinting slightly. "What party, Elsie?" he asked all of a sudden, remembering his mother's words.

Mrs. Branson would probably scold him for the familiarity, but Elsie didn't mind. It was one of their many secrets. "Charles is retiring today, my boy. He won't be the butler anymore," she told him with a smile and put the dress away, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, like a young girl in love, waiting for the man she loved to come and take her away, sweep her off her feet with one word, one look.

So what if she wasn't _all that young_? She was everything else.

"Why?"

She sighed and looked at the boy, still smiling. "Because it's high time he started to enjoy his life more." _And stopped waking me up and five thirty when he leaves for work!_

"Enjoy?" Robbie frowned and rubbed his nose, trying to understand. "Play more?"

_Well, that's one way to put it._ "Something like that."

"And presents, Elsie? Are there presents?"

_Depending on how you define 'presents'…_ Oh, her mind really _was_ in a gutter! "I believe there will be."

"I want to retire, too."

She nearly bent over with laughter. This boy was as surely the son of Lady Sybil and Tom Branson as he was the great-grandson of Violet Crawley. "I'm sure one day you will. Only not just yet."

"Good," he stated firmly and closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes.

Elsie observed the shadows on his rosy cheeks cast by his long eyelashes, and wondered what her own grandchildren would look like if she ever had them. It was once a dangerous path to wander—reminding her of everything she didn't have—but she'd long since learnt to accept her life as it was, and forget about missed opportunities.

After all, she had _so much_! An interesting, meaningful life: according to her own standards, at least. A position and respect of her superiors, earned by her own hard work. A small, yet loyal group of people she could call friends.

And a man who loved her more than anything…

…and was currently approaching her, walking across the meadows with his jacket hanging from the crook of his arm: the most unusual sight!

She placed a finger across her lips, pointing at the sleeping child, only to find it pulled away from its resting place and replaced by Charles' lips. "How is the young rascal today?" he purred into her ear, sitting down next to her on a stone step.

"Perfectly fine. He's just informed me that he wishes to retire as well."

"Oh? And why is that?"

"To enjoy the fun and presents, I believe."

"Is _that_ what awaits the men who retire?" he asked hopefully, raising his eyebrows suggestively.

"Only if they're good to their wives."

"And have _I_ been good to you, Elsie?"

She looked at him, as always marvelling in the fact that they'd been married for just two years. It felt like a lifetime.

It probably _had been_ a lifetime, with or without the wedding bands.

"I believe you have nothing to worry about, Mr. Carson."

"Very pleased to hear it, Mrs. Carson," he answered and pulled her close, kissing her thoroughly, the caress carrying a promise for more to come later, after he'd officially handed his post over to the young Mr. Wallace. "Shall we head home, put the young man in a real bed?" he asked after a few moments, standing up and holding his hand out to her.

The look in Elsie's eyes told him _precisely_ which man she'd rather put in her bed—and he hid the idea inside his heart for later.

The best thing about retiring, Charles decided as they walked back towards their cottage with Robbie sleeping soundly in his arms, was that once retired, people no longer had to care about propriety all that much.

**The End (for real, this time).**

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><p><em><strong>AN:** I sincerely hope you enjoyed this little vignette: it hopped into my head just as I was finishing the previous chapter, and refused to leave. Did I do the right thing, succumbing to its will and writing it down? You tell me._

_Oh, and I took the cue regarding Elsie's age from the Season One Press Pack, in case anyone wondered._

_Thank you very much for reading this story, and I hope to 'see' all of you again, soon!_


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